


willingly

by murphamy



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Dyslexia, M/M, Murphamy Week Events, dyslexia awareness day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-25 04:27:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16190078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murphamy/pseuds/murphamy
Summary: You don’t need to read or write on the ground.You only need to stay alive. Be careful, smart and strong and you’ll survive. Who cares about anything else?





	willingly

**Author's Note:**

> this is just a short lil fic for murphamy WDAD! it's not plot and has no structure, just random. anyway. i hope you enjoy.

You don’t need to read or write on the ground.

You only need to stay alive. Be careful, smart and strong and you’ll survive. Who cares about anything else?

He had been right all those months ago.

He recalls Bellamy approaching him after his altercation with Wells. He had sweeped his gaze over the dented dropship panel, reading Murphy’s intricately carved first son first to dye, and laughed. He clenched his fists and gritted his teeth, but then Bellamy encouraged him, offered him a place at his side. Murphy took it willingly.

That same night, they hid away from the rest of the delinquents in the dropship, and spoke quietly. Octavia struggled with writing, reading and even speaking growing up, but who cares now? Bellamy said, and then he squeezed Murphy’s shoulder and told him those skills weren’t needed down here, and even if for some reason they were, Bellamy would be there to help him.

Where is he now?

There’s a map in his hands, a note paperclipped to the corner, and Murphy squints at the chicken scratch. Bellamy knows he can’t read. Yet he has left a meeting point on wrinkled card and a scrunched up map, and demanded Murphy follows him there, wherever ‘there’ - a bright red squiggle - is. He doesn’t understand why Bellamy would do this, when he can’t read the message nor does he know how a map works.

He huffs and snaps a twig under his boot.

Murphy turns the flimsy paper in his hands, scanning the forest. The land has changed since apocalypse one, rivers where rivers shouldn’t be, and even if he could read the map, he doubts it’s an accurate representation of the area. He weaves left through the overbearing trees and shrubbery, scanning the moss carpeted floor for a hatch or a door, whatever it is that Raven said to look for as she handed him the instructions.

How long has he been outside of Camp?

Night begins to creep up on him, the long shadows of the trees connecting as the sun disappears behind the hill to Murphy’s back. The overhanging branches thick with leaves obscure the last orange beams of sunset from reaching him, and the light of the moon as it creeps overhead is no help either.

Murphy rests against a tree for five minutes, stretching out his ankles as he rummages through his rucksack for the wind up torch he’s sure he put in here this morning. He grabs the torch, placing it on his lap, and unclips the note from the map. Murphy brings it up to his face, eyes squinting. He tries to connect each letter to the sound it makes, but he doesn’t know how to read, write, or wrap his mouth around the words properly. His eyes don’t connect to his mouth.

He does recognise the scrawl of his own name at the top, underlined. He knows how to spell and write Murphy because it’s all his father managed to teach him. He takes those letters and tries to pick them out in a sentence, but no two letters are written the same. Some are longer, some wider, and some are written more harshly. Murphy knows there are 27 letters in the alphabet, but it feels as though there are hundreds on this card.

Wetness pricks at the corner of his eyes, rolls down his cheek, and Murphy rips up the note, throwing the shreds by his feet. He draws his legs up to his chest and curls his arms around them, exhausted. It’s chilly, he doesn’t know where he is, skaikru aren’t on good terms with the grounders, and Murphy doesn’t know what to do.

“Murphy?”

Murphy hurries to his feet, straining to hear the voice in the dark, somewhere in the woods.

“I told...bring him, Raven… leave him a…he can’t read.”

It’s Bellamy’s voice, getting closer and then further away.

“Bellamy!” he shouts at the top of his lungs, sack over his shoulder as he fumbles with the wind-up torch, blinking it on and off.

The forest undergrowth rustles and Murphy can hear the thumping of footsteps in his direction. Murphy continues to flick the torch, surrounding his feet in light before the darkness pours in again.

“Murphy?” Bellamy calls, closer now. “Are you  
hurt?”

“I’m fine, just. Hurry up. Please.”

Bellamy emerges into his line of sight and the older man sweeps Murphy up in his arms, tight.

“Sorry, I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

Murphy clings to Bellamy’s jumper, face pressed against his shoulder. “I’m fine,” he mumbles again, more insistent. “Why the fuck did you leave me a map? A note? As if I can-”

“That was Raven,” Bellamy grunts. “I told her to bring you with her, but apparently she didn’t want to walk with you. I’m sorry. I thought… the grounders…”

Murphy scoffs. “As if I’d let anyone touch me.”

Bellamy pulls away and ruffles Murphy’s matted hair. “Let’s go. They’re waiting.”

“They? Why did you want me to meet you in the middle of nowhere?”

“Delinquent meeting. We have a plan to rescue our friends.”

Bellamy tugs Murphy’s wrist and guides him back to Raven and the rest of his - their - friends. In the dark, he smiles. Bellamy’s here, and that’s good and he trusts him, but his heart swells more from the inclusion of him in the group. He’s a part of them - of him now, and Murphy follows Bellamy willingly.

 

 


End file.
